


Performance of a Lifetime

by xElementFivex



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Poor Viktor, Psychological Torture, Stalking, Viktor with a K, psychotic fans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:51:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xElementFivex/pseuds/xElementFivex
Summary: Just as Yuuri is beginning to settle into life in St. Petersburg, something terrible happens.All he's left with are a missing fiance, a threatening letter, and a series of increasingly violent and disturbing videos starring Viktor that keep showing up on his doorstep.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First story in the YOI fandom. I enjoy watching characters I love hurt. Hope you enjoy it too.

It’s funny but possibly the only thing Yuuri doesn’t hate about being moderately famous is the fan mail. Just the mail, though. He still sucks at meeting his fans face-to-face; he stutters over his words and looks at the floor and is usually just lucky enough to escape before he embarrasses himself completely. But mail, that he can do.

It’s nice to see all the letters and imagine the people that have written them. He knows what that’s like; he’d sent an embarrassing number of letters to Viktor when he was younger. They had all come back with a lovely thank you clearly typed up by a publicist and Viktor’s hurried, untidy signature. Yuuri had treasured them all the same.

Besides, it’s a lot harder for him to be awkward in writing. With letters, he doesn’t have to rush; he can take his time, work out the words in his head. Yuuri’s always done his best to reply to as many letters as he can. Of course, now that it’s been a year and a half since Viktor came thundering into his life like a freight train, that task has gotten monumentally harder. A lot more people seem to know Yuuri’s name now. To be honest, he’s still trying to figure out how to feel about that.

Regardless, it’s still one of the few things he likes about being internationally known, so that’s why he’s spending the afternoon of what should be a perfectly lazy rest day on the floor of Viktor’s apartment, with a stack of letters next to him and ink marks on his hand. It’s certainly not the worst way to spend the day; the combination of Viktor’s ridiculously expensive heated floors under him and Makachin’s warm body spread out over his feet do wonders for combating the biting winter chill of St. Petersburg. 

Yuuri reaches for the next letter. This one’s in English, which is okay. Constant traveling for skating competitions over the years has taken his grasp of the language from barely passable to what he considers pretty acceptable. It’s a good thing too, since Viktor’s Japanese is like gravel through a blender and Yuuri’s Russian isn’t any better. He’s working on it though, now that they’re settled in St. Petersburg. Although there is something nice about being in a place where he doesn’t know the language; no one expects him to say much at the rink and he can concentrate on his skating without having to worry about making conversations with the overabundance of rinkmates he finds himself with now.

He’s been using the couch as a backrest, and looks up when he feels it shift as Viktor drapes his lanky body over one arm of it. Makachin stirs from her place at Yuuri’s feet, walking over to curl up unceremoniously closer to Viktor, who drags a hand through her fur as he peers curiously at Yuuri’s project. Makachin whines softly as he pulls a letter at random from Yuuri’s pile, ice blue eyes inspecting the envelope, which has Yuuri’s name written with a little heart over the I. 

“You answer your own fanmail?” Viktor says, flipping it over to find more hearts drawn along the seal. 

“Yeah.” Yuuri shrugs absentmindedly as he pens another short response. “I don’t mind it.”

“Hmmm.” Viktor carefully puts the letter back and returns to petting Makachin, who seems pleased with this turn of events. “I haven’t answered my own in years. I’ve never really had the time.” 

Yuuri bites back the desire to say that he knows; he’s been the recipient of several such not-Viktor replies in the last couple of years. But he doesn’t want to deal with that mystified look Viktor gets in his eyes whenever they talk about Yuuri’s years of hero-worship, so he stays quiet.

“You know, you’ve been getting busier too,” Viktor continues. “We could ask Yakov to find you a publicist. You really should have one. Maybe Alina would be willing to take you on.”

“No thanks.” Yuuri suppresses a shudder as he thinks about Viktor’s publicist, who has the force of a hurricane and a personality to match. “I think I’ll be fine.” He picks up another letter, grateful for the distraction. “Look, this one’s in Cyrillic. You’ll have to read it for me.”

He tosses the envelope to Viktor and busies himself with another. He’s smiling to himself over a child’s messy kanji when he hears Viktor let out a small gasp behind him. He turns immediately, craning his neck to look up at Viktor, who is staring at the paper with an unreadable expression darkening his eyes. 

“What is it, Viktor?”

Viktor’s snaps his attention toward Yuuri, and gives him one of his trademark smiles. The kind that Yuuri used to love to see on television, the kind that he knows now are completely fake. “It’s nothing,” he answers lightly. 

Yuuri narrows his eyes. Viktor can’t hide the slight tremble of his fingers where they grip the paper, or the sudden tightness around his mouth. “Viktor. Tell me.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” Viktor sighs, relaxing his death grip on the letter. “Just someone being stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

“Viktor.”

Viktor sighs again, bringing a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, a sure sign that he’s trying to stave off a headache. “It’s a threat,” he says finally.

“Oh.” Yuuri isn’t sure what to say to that. He’s been lucky, so far, where crazy fans are concerned. Nothing too bad. He should have expected it really, what with his sudden jump in popularity.

“Sort of.” Viktor doesn’t meet Yuuri’s eyes. “To me.”

“To you?” Yuuri’s now turned fully toward the couch, and he lets one hand rest carefully on Viktor’s knee. He can feel the tenseness of his muscles under his sweats, how his whole body is strung tight like a piano wire. The room feels colder now than it did before, or maybe that’s just Yuuri’s imagination.

“It’s more a warning. To…stay away from me. There’s a lot of explict stuff in here.”

“Explicit?” Yuuri feels his eyes go wide. His stomach drops slightly as his anxiety starts to kick in. “Read it to me,” he demands.

Viktor shakes his head furiously. “No. I don’t want you to worry about it,” he says in a tone that brooks no further argument. Yuuri argues anyway.

“Viktor, please, tell me what it says. I need to know.”

Viktor, who is normally the most talkative person in the room, is a steel fortress on this it seems. “No,” he says again firmly. “This happens. Some people are crazy, they see someone famous and they think they have some kind of claim to them. I promise this isn’t the first letter like this that’s been written about me.”

“But-“

“Look,” Viktor says, pleading. “If it will make you feel better, I’ll give the letter to Yakov in the morning. He’s very good at dealing with things like this.”

The thought of action of some kind, of someone other than the two of them being aware of the situation, comforts Yuuri somewhat. Viktor puts the offending letter aside and helps Yuuri finish off the pile of mail with his usual overabundant enthusiasm. Yuuri stays silent every time he sees Viktor shoot a covert look at the letter, distress clear on his face.

 

****

 

“It’s going to be no challenge to beat you at this year’s Grand Prix if your Salchow stays that sloppy, Katsudon!”

Yuuri skids to a stop in front of the boards, catching his breath while good-naturedly ignoring the heckling from Yurio. 

“Nothing to say, piggy?”

Yuuri turns towards Yurio, elbows resting on the boards behind him and gives him a little wave and a gracious smile. “Thanks for the advice, Yurio. Always helpful.”

In response, Yurio rolls his eyes and skates away, mumbling under his breath in Russian. Yuuri smiles to himself. They’ve been rinkmates for a few months now, so the comments roll off his back. The first few weeks in Russia had been enough to show him that it wasn’t just him; Yurio speaks to everyone with the same general disdain and thinly veiled insults.

Yuuri’s hip and leg ache from several missed jumps, so he decides to switch to working on his step sequence for awhile. Normally, Viktor would be critiquing him; this is the block of time they have set up for Viktor to be Yuuri’s coach, in between both their busy schedules of gym time, and time at the dance studio, and Viktor’s own time on the ice with Yakov. Currently though, Viktor’s been called away to the opposite side of the rink, in some kind of conversation with Yakov.

Yuuri had watched nervously at first, as the two had stepped away to talk, worried again that it might be about the letter. He had watched Viktor hand it over to Yakov earlier that week, taken note of the slight twitch of Yakov’s eye that was his only reaction to the words he was reading. Both of them had still refused to translate it for him.

Whatever they were talking about now seemed to be much lighter though. Viktor was smiling, a real one this time and Yakov wasn’t even yelling, which Yuuri has come to find is his default mode of speaking. Viktor turns, catching Yuuri’s eyes with a grin and a wave, before Yuuri spins away to begin working again on his steps, embarrassed to have been caught looking.

The sharp sound of Viktor’s skates gliding through the ice announces his arrival just before his overly-cheerful declaration. “Yuuri!” he calls, stretching the name out far past any normal pronunciation. “Guess what?”

Yuuri hums in response to show he’s listening as his body works through a particularly difficult bit of choreography.

“I’m going to be on the cover of a magazine!”

Yuuri snorts a laugh in what is probably a very unattractive manner. “Viktor, you’re on magazine covers all the time,” he reminds him.

“Well this one’s different!” Viktor says. He's clearly trying his best to sound affronted, but the warmth in his eyes gives him away. “They’re just starting out, and they want me to be their very first cover.”

Viktor’s voice is earnest, and Yuuri smiles genuinely at him. “That’s great, Viktor. What magazine is it?”

Viktor rattles off something in rapidfire Russian that Yuuri, whose vocabularly still only consists of “Hello, how are you” and “My name is Yuuri”, can’t decipher. He nods anyway.

“They’re sending a car by the rink in an hour. You should come with me! I’m sure they would love to get some shots of my star student.”

“I’m your only student."

Viktor dismisses his statement with a casual wave of his hand. “Regardless, you should still come.”

“I would.” Yuuri grimaces and rubs the back of his neck selfconscouisly. “But this bit of choreography will keep me up all night if I don’t get it right.” He really wouldn’t mind going. Being around so many people he doesn’t know isn’t his favorite, but he likes to watch Viktor work. Viktor moves through life like there’s a camera on him at all times, so photoshoots are like second nature to him. But this choreography really is bothering him, and if there’s anyone who will understand, it’s Viktor, who nods and gives him a commiserating look.

“Ok, well let’s work on it before I have to go. Where are you having trouble?”

They work hard for the next hour, until Yuuri is sweating in the chilly air of the rink. He sees Viktor off with a wave and a declaration of ‘good luck’ that both of them know he doesn’t need. And then, because he’s not tired just yet, he skates the sequence again and again until he’s certain it’s committed to muscle memory.

He’s exhausted by the time he stumbles back to their apartment, too tired to do much more than scarf down some lukewarm leftovers and fall asleep on the couch to the monotone sound of Russian informercials on the tv. 

It won’t be until he wakes up again that he realizes something has gone horribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

Yuuri jerks awake, and before he even opens his eyes, he’s flooded with the horrible feeling that something is _wrong_. 

The apartment is dark; the only light coming from the television, casting an eerie silver glow over the living room. The apartment is quiet except for the low murmuring of some late-night talk show and Makachin’s light snores. It takes Yuuri’s sleepy mind some time to piece everything together, to sort through the unnamed panic still welling up inside him. For a moment, he’s blissfully unaware and then-

_Where is Viktor?_

He squints at the clock on the wall, glasses still folded up on the arm of the couch. When he finally makes out the time, his blood runs cold. _Three in the morning._ The unease, which has so far been a whisper in the back of his mind, is suddenly an all-out roar. He’s sure Viktor’s not home; if he was, Yuuri wouldn’t still be on the couch, the tv wouldn’t still be on, and Makachin wouldn’t be curled up by the front door, waiting.

Logic. He needs to approach this logically, calmly. Yuuri does his best to push the swirling, writhing mass of anxiety down as far as it will go. He needs all his faculties right now, can’t afford to lose it. First things first, he swings himself off the couch, now fully and irrevocably awake. It takes him less than five minutes to search the apartment; he flips on every light and opens every door, even the closet in the guest bedroom, like Viktor might be hiding in there to jump out at him.

He’s breathing hard, heart hammering away in his chest, as grabs his phone. Viktor’s name is there, at the top of his contacts list. His stomach is in knots, hard and painful, as he holds the phone to his ear. It doesn’t even ring, sending him immediately to voicemail. He tries again, and again, frustration mounting with each attempt. 

By the fifth time, he’s well and truly starting to freak out, legs bouncing with nervous energy. He tries another number. This one picks up after the second ring.

“Katsuki?” Yakov’s voice is rough and gravely with sleep. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Viktor’s missing!” Yuuri blurts it out, and the admission is terrible. Saying it out loud makes it feel different; real and concrete and horrible.

“What?”

“Viktor is missing,” he repeats. He can feel anger building in his chest that Yakov doesn’t seem to understand, to catch on quicker. He knows it’s irrational, but it’s there all the same. “He hasn’t been home. I don’t know where he is.”

“Katsuki.” Yakov is silent for a beat, like he’s trying to decide whether or not to say something. “Are you sure he didn’t stay out somewhere? He used to do that sort of thing all the time before-“ the _you_ lingers unspoken in the air, “-before,” he finishes firmly. “I used to worry when he was younger, but he always showed up in time for practice. Every single time.”

Yuuri shakes his head furiously, and then realizes Yakov can’t see him over the phone. “No. He doesn’t do that now. Something’s wrong, I know it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s never been more sure of anything. There is something wrong, he knows it by the wrenching, twisting feeling in his gut. He wishes frantically to be proven wrong though, for Viktor to come strolling through the door with a smile on his face and an excuse for the late hour. The door however, remains dark and quiet.

“Okay,” says Yakov, drawing Yuuri’s attention back to the phone. “I believe you, Katsuki. Have you tried to call him?”

The relief is nearly palpable. Yakov believes him; he’s not alone on this. He’s so tired of fighting alone. “Yes. I’ve been calling his phone but it goes straight to voicemail every time.”

“Alright.” Yakov seems to think for a minute, working out the best plan of action. “I’m going to call around: police stations, hospitals, places he might be at.”

“I’ll call too.”

“No,” Yakov says and then, before Yuuri can argue, “I know you want to help, but your Russian is still not good enough, especially over the phone.”

Yuuri feels his cheeks flush, feels utterly useless. “What do I do?” His voice comes out weak and child-like, and he that makes him feel even worse. He’s not supposed to lose it, he can’t. He needs to be stronger than this.

“Stay there. Viktor may come home and you need to be there. Keep your phone on you. I’ll call you back when I’m done calling around.” 

He doesn’t wait for Yuuri to agree, just hangs up the phone with a click. Yuuri lowers the phone from his ear slowly, staring at it in his hand. He feels lost, unsure, and so, so scared. Part of him is already berating himself for panicking so quickly. Surely it’s nothing, he’s woken Yakov up for nothing; this will all turn out to be a big misunderstanding. But another part of him, a bigger part than he wants to admit, knows that he’s right.

Yuuri nearly jumps out of his skin when a cold, wet nose pushes itself against his other hand, still dangling at his side. Makachin has woken up and seems to sense his distress. She whines softly and noses at his hand again, and he curls his hand gratefully in her soft fur. It’s a small comfort, and he uses the feel of her fur and warm breath on his skin to ground himself, pull him back to cold reality.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, but the ringing of his phone cuts through the night, loud and shrill. He jams at the screen with his thumb and raises the phone desperately to one ear. 

“Did you find him?”

“No.”

Yuuri feels his stomach drop, and his hand tightens unconsciously on Makachin’s fur. 

“I’ve called everywhere I could think of. No sign of him.”

“I’m going out looking for him.” The statement surprises him as much as it does Yakov. He hadn’t known until he’d said it, but yes, that’s what he has to do. The thought of staying at home another second, not knowing where Viktor is and not doing anything about it, is unbearable. “I’ll call you the minute I find him.”

He’s already in motion, jacket under one arm and tugging on his boots, when Yakov’s voice comes down the line, steady and gentle. “Yuuri.” He freezes. It’s the first time he’s heard Yakov use his name like that. And suddenly, it’s like Yakov has pulled out a foundation block, he’s crumbling and he can’t stop it. 

Yuuri sits down heavily on the couch, scarf wrapped haphazardly around his neck, one boot half-on.

“Yuuri,” Yakov repeats. “You can’t go out now. What good would it do? You don’t know the city or the language, and it’s freezing. It will do more harm than good.”

“I-“ His voice cracks on the word, and he falls silent. He knows, knows, that Yakov is right, but in that moment nothing seems more hateful than staying still, doing nothing. 

“Listen, be ready first thing in the morning. I will come pick you up and we will go to where he had his photo shoot. That’s the last place we know he was.” He waits for Yuuri to agree, and then, “Try and get some sleep. We will sort this out. Everything will be okay.”

He says goodbye to Yakov on autopilot, then hangs up the phone. He can feel the walls inside of him threatening to break and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself back together. He can do this. It will be alright.

_Please god, let it be alright._

 

****

 

Despite Yakov’s words, Yuuri doesn’t sleep a wink more. It’s only a few hours between that first awful, waking realization and dawn, and Yuuri spends every second of it worrying. At first he stays on the couch and worries until he feels sick, feels the bile rise in the back of his throat. After that he stays committed to finding something, _anything_ , to do to keep him occupied. He does laundry, folds towels, sweeps, mops, wipes down the already spotless kitchen, scrubs the bathroom until it’s gleaming.

By the time morning rolls around, golden bright and still so cold, his hands are pink and raw from cleaning. He doesn’t mind though. The mindless repetition of household tasks is something familiar, something comforting. It takes him back to his childhood spent at the onsen, doing chores after school and before dance class, back before he’d started spending all his time at Ice Castle Hasetsu.

It’s barely seven in the morning when Yakov knocks brusquely on the door. Yuuri, who has been ready to go for the past half an hour, hurries to answer it, giving Makachin an absent-minded pat on the head on his way out. He’s not sure how long he’ll be gone, so the dog has enough food and water out for the rest of the day.

The car ride is silent and tense, all conversation ending after a brief _‘anything?’_ from Yakov. Yuuri doesn’t even have to vocalize his answer; it’s written in stress across his face. The morning is bitterly cold, and the heater of the car whines and clanks as it struggles to keep up. 

The office that’s home to the small magazine is not far; Yuuri barely has time to get warmed up before they’re pulling up beside a small strip of business fronts lining the road. There’s a travel agency to one side and a bakery to the other, already up and humming with life in the cold morning. And there, in between-

Nothing.

Yuuri yanks his seatbelt off, desperate to exit the car and look closer. He runs across the snow-laden sidewalk, kicking up slush with every footstep, stopping when he’s close enough to press his face to the glass windows. There’s nothing there; just an empty storefront and a large For Lease sign in the window. 

“This isn’t the right place,” he says, turning to face Yakov, who’s hurrying behind him. “You must have gotten the address wrong.”

“No.” Yakov’s face is drawn tight, a deep furrow between his eyebrows. “This is it.”

Before Yuuri can argue that no, of course it’s not, Yakov’s on the phone. Yuuri can’t understand the terse words of the conversation, though every now and then he picks up a word he thinks he might recognize if only Yakov wasn’t talking so fast. Yakov hangs up the phone before Yuuri can piece anything he’s said together. 

“This is it,” he says again, and there’s something like fear in his voice now. Yuuri trembles; whether it’s from the cold or the situation, he’s not sure. “This is the address. Call Viktor again.”

Yuuri jumps to follow the order, but just like all the other times, the call goes straight through to voicemail. He looks from the empty storefront to Yakov’s grim face, the tense set of his shoulders. “What do we do now?” he asks.

“Now, we go to the police.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts so far? Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
